Ayesha Harruna Attah

Saturday’s Shadows

World Editions

breda 2015

Published in Great Britain in 2015 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Ayesha Harruna Attah, 2015

Cover design Multitude

Cover credit © Angèle Etoundi Essamba

The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-044-8

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If you have no time to attend to your illness,

you get time to die.

– Ghanaian proverb

chapter one

The Crowd

We went mad after the transition. Doctor Karamoh Saturday had given up his military regime and was now president of our fledgling democratic country, but everyone knows a zebra never changes its stripes. In my household, we were going through our own changes: Kojo was away for the first time at a boarding school controlled by the same bloodthirsty thieves who ruled the country, Theo was stuck in a hole at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Atsu, a meek girl from the village, had just started working for us. Me? I was wondering how long I had to live.

Either the madness seeped in from the outside, or it was a latent virus lurking in each of us, waiting for the right moment to unleash its deadly nucleic acid. I know exactly when it hit me. It was the day I was shopping for my annual Christmas party, which was a week away. I was driving to the Bakoy Market to procure the party items. A hot harmattan afternoon, the sky was shaded with grey dust, and congestion was relentless. The traffic lights weren’t working, not a single policeman stood in sight, and taxis and minivans cut in and out of tiny impossible spaces.

As I inched my car forward, a migraine jabbed its way from the left part of my skull to the right. A ball of light had formed in my peripheral vision. Nausea. Cars on the road went out of focus and street hawkers morphed into a fuzzy giant. Honks and screaming voices behind me increased in volume.

‘Foolish woman, move your car!’ somebody yelled.

I thought the rage was good, even though I didn’t want it directed at me. Our collective anger, held back for the seventeen years of the Doctor’s dictatorship, was finally erupting. People could now say whatever they wanted without fear: the fear of getting caned by the Saturday Boys, or the fear of disappearing.

A man selling torches and Christmas lights passed by me. The yellow of his shirt turned cream then white, and his head grew oblong. I closed my eyes to shut out the dizzying images. The next thing I felt was my body jerking away from the steering wheel.

Slowly, sensation crawled from the tips of my fingers into the rest of my body. My muscles felt taut, as if someone were pulling them like rubber bands.

A crowd grew fast. Sellers, other drivers, gathered by my car.

‘Lady, are you drunk?’ a man asked.

Another in ripped shorts approached me, hands clasped over his head, mouth hanging wide open. I wasn’t given time to process what was going on.

‘Ei, Madam, you’ve killed me!’ he wailed. ‘My boss will finish me today. I don’t have money! I still haven’t paid my children’s school fees. Now this.’

I was confused, only beginning to realize what had happened.

‘You know you did this,’ he said. ‘You all saw. She did this.’

I dragged myself out of the car and accidentally pushed a woman selling oranges as I tried to steady myself. I walked closer to the man’s car and the crowd followed me, and even though they were at least an arm’s length away, it felt as if their bodies were pressing into me. His bumper was slightly dented in the middle. My car was barely scratched.

‘Oh, this isn’t that bad,’ I said.

‘Not for you, it’s not. Please, Madam, how are you solving this problem?’

I really couldn’t part with my money. It was to be used as follows: four broilers, a sack of rice, a gallon of oil. The change was to be handed to Atsu to buy fresh vegetables and fruit a few days before the party. Money was tight—Theo didn’t seem to be fighting harder for more respect at the ministry, and at work I was dealing with crooks who were telling me that, since the transition, palm-oil production had gone down and prices had shot up, so I had already cut back on the usual party luxuries: catered food, hired musicians, decorations that lit up the whole street, some four-legged creature roasting on a spit. If I parted with even a tenth of the money, something would not get bought.

‘How much do you need?’ I asked. Behind us the traffic had doubled. ‘Should we move off to the side?’

‘Unless I go to the mechanic, how will I know, Madam? Tell me what you’re giving me.’

‘Five hundred kowries?’ We’d probably have to skimp on tomatoes, garlic, and ginger.

‘It’s not good.’

‘Let’s move our cars so those people can go,’ I said.

‘She wants to run!’ said a rough voice. Even though I hadn’t thought of it, this third party was right. I could run, and nobody would ever come looking for me. I wouldn’t even have to hide.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Six?’ My headache still lingered, but at least the nausea had left. He shook his head; he must have thought I’d be an easy target. But I wasn’t about to get cheated out of my Christmas party. I said: ‘Fine, I’ll give you my house number.’ I opened my purse and rummaged through it for my business card. I scribbled on the card with the Duell and Co. logo—the crown of a palm tree—and stretched out my hand. ‘Tell your boss to call me and I’ll settle this with him.’

He looked at the crowd, and I followed his gaze. Lustful for their approval, he waited.

‘Take it!’ a woman shouted.

‘No! She’s cheating you!’ said another.

‘Nobody just dashes you six hundred kowries these days. Someone is giving you money. Take it!’

‘Don’t take it!’

Their voices were rising, chanting, thrumming along with my headache: don’t-take it-don’t-take it-don’t! They wanted me to pay. But I was the wrong person, I’d have liked to say to them. The person they should harass was up on the hill in the distance, the one who had made us poorer with oppression. Not me.

‘Two thousand,’ he said.

‘Massa,’ I said and laughed, ‘I don’t even have half of that to give you. Let your boss call me.’

‘Kai!’ someone shouted. ‘Lies! She wants to get you into trouble.’

‘Take her car!’

To this crowd, this is what I was: a cushy job, a nice four-by-four, a well-fed family, children in private schools, a maid, education abroad, money to take vacations, expensive diseases. They thought I was spoiled and entitled and could pay my way out of any situation, and they were going to make me pay! I was no different from the Doctor. They grew into one giant monster and marched forward, ready to chew me up.

My pride was fuel for their anger. I needed to fight back differently, so I found myself lowering my knees to the tarmac, the roughness of it poking my bare skin. I palmed my left hand in my right and said, ‘Massa, I beg you. All I have is six hundred. Call me tomorrow and I’ll get you four hundred more.’ My voice actually shook as I dug out the notes from my bag.

He snatched them from my hand and stomped off, leaving me with the hungry crowd. Jaundiced or alcohol-reddened eyes (depending on who you were looking at) swivelled from the departing man to me. They wouldn’t stop staring, and I fixed my gaze on the girl carrying the pyramid of oranges. I couldn’t tell if she pitied or envied me. Shaken, I got back into my car and willed myself to drive to the Bakoy Market.

chapter two

Misfit

I’ve been at the International Secondary School for five months and three days, and everyone tells me that I’m lucky. Not everyone gets into the ISS. It’s a privilege, Kojo. But I can’t tell you what the fuss is about. In the last five months, I’ve been bullied, had to question my intelligence time and time again, and I’ve fallen in love, and everybody knows that is never a good thing.

‘Kojo Avoka, please come and say grace,’ shouts Kunle, startling me. Kunle, my nemesis and room-mate. The most annoying being on the planet. Thing. He doesn’t deserve to be called a being. He snores, throws his clothes all over the bedroom floor, and every chance he gets, he punishes me.

I drag my feet onto the wooden stage, sweat sliding down from my armpits, until I am next to Kunle, who plunks the mic into my hand and strides off the stage before I can beg him to stay. That would never have happened—me beg Kunle? Never.

‘Please close your eyes,’ I say, and close mine.

A hush descends on the dining hall. It’s funny how I can feel the silence falling. But now, a problem: the words I want to use for the prayer have chosen to stay hidden wherever it is words are formed.

‘Dear God,’ I croak, but can’t remember what comes next. I say this prayer every day, morning, afternoon, and evening. Or maybe I just open my mouth whenever we’re saying grace. What comes afterwards? Someone coughs. It’s rough, dry, and probably fake.

‘Dear God …’

More coughs. When I woke up this morning, I thought I would swallow my burned millet porridge, go to class, stare at Inaam, go for lunch, struggle through basketball, and keep on being my boring old self. I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t. Half of the dining hall has their hands pressed together in prayer and the other half is gawking at me, the teachers and prefects in the back, especially. They’re leaning forward, stopping short of gesturing, ‘Yes, go on.’ I press my eyelids shut again and pretend they’re not there. Dear Lord, I pray, I know I am not the best person a lot of the time, but please rescue me. I won’t think evil thoughts when an upper sends me on the stupidest errand. I won’t think bad things about Daddy. Help me. I wait for God’s voice for a long, long time.

‘Blessed bless,’ I finally say. Officially the shortest prayer anybody’s ever said in the dining hall.

‘AMEN!’ the dining hall responds.

After lunch, as I’m slinking past Mrs. Diouf and the other teachers on duty, Kunle and two upper one boys pounce on me.

‘Avoka, you don’t know how to pray?’ one of them says. I can never remember his name. All I know is he’s the most moronic-looking person I’ve ever met, jaw jutting forward, the flattest forehead in the world. We’ll just call him Moron from here on. The other boy is Ayensu, and I think we’re even related on Daddy’s side of the family. Not that it stops him from harassing me.

‘Well, we are going to show you how to pray,’ Kunle says, and they start singing ‘A Mighty Fortress is our God,’ but their tune is so off, it doesn’t even sound like a song anymore. Kunle drums on my back, and Moron beatboxes. We arrive at the boys’ dormitories, and they herd me behind Tower A.

Ayensu says, ‘We are going to help you remember the prayer. Tell him, Ayo.’

‘Dear God, bless this food to our use, and us to Thy service, and make us ever-mindful of the needs of others,’ obediently cites Ayo/Moron.

‘Got it?’ Kunle asks. I’m not even halfway through nodding when he twists my left ear and tries to knot it. ‘Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Repeat it,’ says Ayensu.

‘Dear God, bless this food to our use and make us mindful to the needs of other people.’

‘He’s an idiot,’ Ayensu says. ‘A complete idiot.’

Kunle instructs Moron to repeat the prayer. I knew I’d forgotten something.

‘Since you failed at your chance to get out of jail free, your punishment is to scrub the Tower A boys’ toilet, shouting the prayer at the top of your voice, till you can say it from front to back, back to front, words jumbled up, helter-skelter, willy-nilly,’ Ayensu says and cackles. Pure evil.

Kunle adds, ‘You’ll do this every day until we break for Christmas.’

‘Please, I’ll get it,’ I find myself saying. ‘Let me try it again. Please.’ I can’t do this for more than a day. They ignore me and shove me into the bathroom.

The boys’ toilet is disgusting. It announces itself with its smell before you arrive at its doors. Water constantly overflows from three urinals, half of these boys aren’t potty-trained, and don’t ask me how or why, but sometimes there’s poop on the floor. I douse the whole place in Dettol, which barely covers up the smell of excrement and fermented urine.

My voice goes hoarse from screaming the prayer out loud, and I’m feeling so stupid I could cry. The only thing keeping me sane is knowing that in one blasted week, this term will be over. And then I remember. Another colossal barrier exists between my current existence and my happiness: the stupid dance party. We have to invite girls to the dance. I’ve been meaning to ask Inaam to go with me.

Mrs. Diouf’s lair. Strange math figures on the green board. There are fifteen of us in the class, and this isn’t even the smallest class I’m taking. At first it was one of the reasons I wanted to come to the ISS so badly: extra attention from teachers. Now, I realize you can’t hide. The nice thing about Mrs. Diouf’s class, though, is I get to stare at the object of my affection.

Let’s take a moment to talk about Inaam: from my description, if I’ve given one at all, you’d think she was unapproachable, the Denise Huxtable of the class. But no, she’s Vanessa. She combs her hair into a large Afro and wears these huge glasses that cover half her face. She sits in front of the class and is the best at math and everything else, except for English, which is where yours truly excels. Although it’s probably only because I’m in Mr. Mahamadu’s class and he’s easier than Inaam’s teacher. Why am I being a wimp and not asking her out already, do I hear you ask? It’s because she’s managed to combine whack with cool in a way nobody does, and it’s sort of intimidating:

It was orientation. The parents had been sent off to a secret room to discuss money and to be thoroughly convinced that sending us to the ISS was a worthy investment. We stood in the dining hall, new students, everyone looking shiny and fresh, some of us wearing our Sunday best. At least I was, because Mummy made me. Those who weren’t controlled by motherly forces wore jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Not button-down shirts, slacks, and shoes polished to face-reflecting perfection. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Not that I was shy, but it was nerve-wracking trying to understand what each person’s face was saying. I could spot the comfortable ones, the ones whose parents were paying full tuition—those to whom this school was a birthright. I also noticed those who were so smart the school had begged them to come, throwing full rides at them. And those who, like me, had made it in by a scrape, most likely on financial aid. We were the grateful ones. I especially didn’t want to see us. It’d be like looking at yourself in the mirror and realizing you’re ugly. The comfortable ones, they were the ones whose moms had left them alone.

The teachers numbered us from one to four and arranged us in groups: the ones together, twos together, you get the drift. I was in group two. Our group leader was my soon-to-be math teacher, Mrs. Diouf, and at that time I didn’t know she was going to become one of my major tormentors.

Our assignment, as citizens of four African countries—Egypt, Senegal, Kenya, and Zimbabwe—was to elect a president and come up with a national motto. The ISS’s own slogan was ‘The Future Leaders of Africa,’ and one of its many selling points was that we were guaranteed to graduate and become movers and shakers on the continent. In group two, team Senegal, we each had to introduce ourselves, pitch what we would do for the country, sound intelligent and cool. It seemed an exercise bent on having us sell ourselves to root out who would be popular once school started. At the end of the group assignment, the elected leaders of Egypt, Senegal, Kenya, and Zimbabwe had to battle it out to become the president of Africa. The president of Zimbabwe was this girl with a big Afro and large glasses, wearing jeans, a purple T-shirt that said ‘Lost Little Girl,’ and dirty sneakers. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the class—there was this one wearing red lipstick who knew she was cute—but to me she was the coolest.

And so they hilariously scrambled to become president of Africa. The four leaders tried to convince us with one-sentence campaigns. One president offered free food for all, another said no madmen would roam the streets, the Egyptian president said Africa had to become a superpower again and we had to go back to when pharaohs ruled the world. The president of Zimbabwe, in her Afro and big glasses, coolly said, ‘If I’m voted president of the United States of Africa, we’ll start to invent cars ourselves.’ She didn’t win. The president of Egypt won, but he ended up dropping out of the ISS in the second week of school.

It was the way she talked, her voice nasal and deep, and that her mother hadn’t dressed her up that made her stand out. She’s why I convinced my mother the ISS was the school for me. We had to become friends, no matter what. Imagine my excitement when I found out she was in my math class. On the first day of class she hadn’t brought her textbook, yet the president of Zimbabwe aka Inaam ended up answering all her questions correctly even though she obviously hadn’t prepared. She could be a bit of a show-off, but was still cooler than everyone else.

Now Mrs. Diouf waddles about the classroom, placing our graded quizzes face down on our desks. You can tell who’s done well, because Dioufy gives them a big old thumbs up or a snappy double tap on their sheets. Those who’ve done averagely, she ignores. And those who’ve flunked, she scowls at. My throat constricts as she approaches my desk, on which I may have scribbled K+I and it crossed out (a few times). Will it be a frown or will I be ignored? A thumbs up is highly unlikely. Impossible, even.

She places my sheet down, fixes her gaze on me, and then there’s a slight puckering of the skin between her eyes. Her brow full-on furrows, her lips scrunch into a pout, and then her whole head goes from left to right. I didn’t see her do that to anyone else—shake her head. This is the fourth quiz I’ve failed. And yet, even knowing that my math grade could affect my scholarship, somehow I’m more preoccupied with asking Inaam to the dance. Do all human beings put matters of the heart first, or is that just me?

The class ends and Inaam jets out so fast I am unable to ask her to the dance. At this point I have nothing else to lose. I see Ngozi, my dining-hall table mate and Inaam’s best friend, and ask her advice on the best way to broach the situation.

‘Too late,’ she says. ‘She’s going with Kunle.’

My eyes home in on the flame tree in the middle of the school’s courtyard, which becomes a blur of orange. Betrayal tastes like the bitter saliva on my tongue right now. But who’s betrayed whom? When I gather myself together and ask Ngozi if she’ll go with me, she says Salif is taking her. I am going to the dance alone.

chapter three

Burned Fish

After five months of working for the Avoka family, Atsu still hasn’t figured them out. It’s bizarre that they’re not letting her stay at their house, like other families would with domestic staff. But mostly it’s their individual strangeness she doesn’t get. She’s never seen Mr. Avoka angry or sad, and come to think of it, neither has she seen him very happy. The son is always hiding in his room, wearing big earphones on his head, and when he surfaces all he wants to do is cook. Imagine Mama letting her brothers cook. The strangest of all is Madam. She’s the one who’s supposed to cook, but can’t. Not that Atsu minds. It’s a chance to experiment with recipes she sees on TV, and even though Madam draws up strict menus, Atsu takes tiny liberties, secretly working toward the chef she’s always dreamed of becoming.

For today’s menu of fried fish and rice with chopped cabbage and carrot stew, her special touch will be a splash of soy sauce, like she saw on Auntie Florence’s Good Dinner. She dashes to the living room, hoping to catch a repeat of that episode, but lands on an advertisement of Protector Condoms, a man and a woman walking through a park. So many condom ads on TV. She returns to the kitchen, where she salts and flours the fish, adding a healthy dose of black pepper. She returns to the living room to allow the fish to soak up the flavour of the pepper, but on the screen is a picture of a dead woman. The newscasters repeat the image of the dead body, a deep patch of blood soaked into her blue cloth. The camera zooms in and out of the stain, and Atsu closes her eyes. When she opens them, a reporter is interviewing the person who discovered the woman’s body. An old man by a kiosk that looks just like Maa Joy with its red door splashed with Maggi and Coca-Cola posters. It is Maa Joy. Even though she can’t read, she’s seen those letters so many times she recognizes them. Still she has to make sure. She dumps the fish into a pot of bubbling oil and runs out of the house. The next-door neighbour’s housegirl will read it to her.

Most times Atsu avoids Ndeye, because she’s constantly disparaging Atsu’s village ways. Ndeye says: your clothes look cheap, you need to straighten your hair because nobody wants to marry a girl with hair that traps fingers, and the word is pronounced ‘CRAB’ not ‘clab,’ speak English. But today Atsu will suffer the abuse.

‘Ndeye, please turn on the news!’

‘Madam, this better be important,’ says Ndeye, ripping open a packet of spaghetti. The roots of her hair are black and the rest of her hair is red like dust. She and Atsu have the same body shape, but Ndeye likes to wear tight clothes, so they look nothing alike. They walk into the living room, Ndeye wielding a knife.

On the news Ebenezer Ojo is talking about a three-day conference organized by the Doctor on malaria eradication. Atsu is sure they’ll soon repeat the news about the body. The serial killer has murdered six women so far.

‘The Doctor is so handsome,’ Ndeye says.

‘Yes, this is it. Turn up the volume and watch this. What have they written on the store? Wait, when they interview the old man. Ah ha, there. Tell me.’

‘Maa Joy Enterprises.’

‘Ndeye, that’s right before my stop.’

When Ndeye speaks, she points the knife at Atsu.

‘I’d say you could stay here, but Mrs. Freeman won’t like that. Beg your bosses to let you stay tonight.’

‘I can’t! What if they sack me?’

‘My friend, this is an emergency. Stop being foolish and just ask them.’

‘My madam said those were the rules when they hired me. What if he’s still there when I get home tonight? Oh God! What should I do?’ Atsu is certain the serial killer only kills one woman and waits a couple of months before striking again, but you never know when lightning will strike twice.

‘Ask them. It won’t hurt.’

‘Ei! Jesus! I forgot about the fish!’

She dashes back to the Avokas’s kitchen, where smoke is shooting from the saucepan in round puffs. She pushes open the mosquito-proof door. The air outside is still and dusty from the harmattan. Madam will be more than annoyed. Atsu’s not only burned the fish, but she’s now letting in bluebottle flies, which Madam can’t stand. Not the best set of conditions in which to ask for a favour.

She stops trying to fan out the smoke, and its weight settles on her, seeps into her body, and soon she begins to feel less like a body than all heart. A heart tightening with fright. Has any decision she’s made in her life so far been worth it? If she were in the village with Mama, life would be uneventful. There’d be no threats. No threats of losing her job, of dying. She coughs and shakes herself out of the state she was winding into and waves out the smoke.

By evening, the smell of burned fish has diminished, but two big bluebottles are darting from left to right in the kitchen, and all her attempts to whack them dead have failed. She shudders when she thinks of the fish sitting in the fridge, charred to almost inedible levels. She turns on the TV again, because as much as she doesn’t want reminders, she can’t help being attracted to the gruesomeness of the whole affair. It’s like watching a horrible car accident. You can’t help looking.

Ebenezer Ojo says, ‘A repeat of today’s headlines. One more woman killed in the ritual killings plaguing the nation’s capital; opposition says they’ve found evidence that killings are being orchestrated by the President of the Republic, Dr. Karamoh Saturday; ministers attend workshop on moving the nation forward; the Hospitality Lions and Ebony Stars draw in friendly match. I am Ebenezer Ojo for ATV News.’

Every time bad news breaks, he’s in front of the camera.

She showers, powders her armpits and face, wears a clean dress, checks that the back door is locked, and waits for Madam to arrive before catching her bus home. On days when Madam gets in after the late-night news, Atsu feels a strong urge to say something rude, because she has to wait for thirty minutes before another lorry arrives. Today, she prays Madam won’t arrive till midnight.

She lies on the carpet, the TV still on. Adult education. They’re talking about ways to save money if you don’t have a bank account. Women can organize themselves into groups and pool their money. The carpet is hard; she has to shift her body to get comfortable. She’d like to sit on the sofa, but Madam could walk in. Ndeye told her not to let her bosses catch her sitting on their furniture.

Three loud honks cut through the room. Madam. Mr. Avoka’s signature is four beeps. She goes outside, dread filling her lungs.

‘Atsu, how are you?’ says Madam, locking the driver’s door.

‘Please, fine.’ Atsu is being a snail. Mama always says that although the spider rushes and tries to be first, it’s the snail that ends up winning because it takes its time and doesn’t make mistakes.

‘I had an accident today,’ Madam says and points to the front bumper of the car, hardly a scratch on it.

‘Sorry, Madam.’

They walk in, Madam tall and thin, her heels clicking on the terrazzo floor, and Atsu returns to the kitchen to wipe down the already clean stove. Click-clacks on the kitchen floor tiles. Atsu asks Madam if she’s ready to eat, but Madam says no, pours herself a cup of water, and leaves the kitchen. Relief floods through Atsu as she stares at the brown stain on the stove she’s never been able to remove. She couldn’t handle a reprimand about the fish, not today, although she’s sure it will come later. Thankful she’s been spared, she lets her legs carry her to the living room to address her problem. Madam is on the sofa, massaging her neck.

‘Madam,’ she says, ‘please, they’ve killed another woman.’

‘Terrible, isn’t it?’

‘They killed her in South Odor.’

‘That’s where you live.’

‘No, North, but it’s close. I’m afraid to go home.’

‘Hmmm.’ Madam’s eyes seem to search the ceiling for an answer. ‘You can stay here tonight. Sleep in Kojo’s room.’

Atsu thanks Madam profusely, but doesn’t know whether to keep talking or whether to take her leave. Madam is not looking her way anymore, and that must be her cue.

Windowless, the corridor that leads into the bedrooms and bathroom is the darkest place in the house. On its north wall, above the door that leads to Mr. Avoka’s study, hangs a framed picture of a respectable but strict-looking old man. Mr. Avoka’s father. Sometimes Atsu feels as if he were watching her, judging her every move, and so because of him she knocks on the doors of the rooms before she enters them, even during the day when no one else is around.

She knows Kojo’s room well, since she has to sweep and dust it daily, although he’s away at school. She pulls out a thin Holland wax print from his bottom drawer and spreads it on his bed. She lies down and stares at the ceiling, covered with two big posters of Michael Jackson and the Eastern Nuggets. Across from her stands a shelf filled with rows and rows and rows of books, words and worlds she would like to visit one day.

chapter four

THE DAILY POST

Monday, September 23, 1996 | We are the news! | Since 1952

Saturday’s People by Theo Avoka

Some have branded me a coward. Others have called me brave. I have to agree with the first group. These essays would never have seen the light of day if Dr. Karamoh Saturday were still alive. Saturday’s People, as I’m calling this monthly column, is partly a memoir of my life and partly a biography of the Doctor.

I still can’t decide if my time with the Doctor was pure accident or fate. Even though our encounter was one I hadn’t had much of a choice in making, our paths were bound to cross. Our life stories began, interestingly enough, in neighbouring fishing villages off the Senevolta River. Saturday was my father’s psychologist in the 1960s, and I inadvertently worked for the Doctor when I became a civil servant in 1975.

We officially met in 1993, at a moment when I thought I would finally be quitting my job (one I had held for eighteen years) and sailing into the unknown. I was approached by my boss, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Mr. Osei-Mintah, who told me I would be part of a team working on Karamoh Saturday’s memoir. As subsequent columns will reveal, I wasn’t given much of a choice. But perhaps this project began much earlier. More than one triggering moment comes to mind: my wife getting sick, meeting Courtney Steele, or maybe even long before that, when my father was kicked out of his estimable role as Minister of the Interior and executed a year later.

Some of the stories I will tell are extremely personal, others larger than I could ever imagine. I dedicate this series to the families of political persecution. My gratitude goes to The Daily Post for publishing these musings of mine.

chapter five

The Dance

The dining hall is a grey kind of dark. Light from the fluorescent bulbs outside seeps in and casts a neon glow over the dancers. I’ve already been around the hall twice, and I’m bored. I was dancing with Salif and Ngozi, but began to look like a partnerless idiot, so I left them and went to drink from the Kelvinator. Obviously, the point in walking around was to find Inaam, and when I did it was unsatisfying. I almost missed her, but fortunately Kunle decided to do this absurd dance move that involved tipping his body backward and kicking his legs out froggy-style, and then I saw her in a red minidress, struggling to dance. She fisted her hands and punched the air, her body moving one way, her hands another. No rhythm whatsoever, but on Inaam it was cute. Then Kunle stood upright and I couldn’t see her anymore. If they had any sort of chemistry, I’d concede defeat. But they don’t.

I walk to the back of the dining hall, where Mrs. Diouf is watching us. I count four seats from her and plunk myself onto the fifth. A couple makes for one of the corners near me, but they spot Mrs. Diouf and turn around. It’s kind of hilarious, the way they pirouette on their toes.

Ngozi and Salif walk toward me.

‘I thought everybody liked Kris Kross,’ I say, sure one of them is feeling sorry for me and dragged the other here.

‘Ngozi is tired,’ Salif says.

‘The entertainment prefects don’t have any skills,’ I say.

‘Why? I’m enjoying the music,’ says Ngozi.

‘What happened to “Mr. Wendal”? To, I don’t know … all the other great songs they could be playing?’

As if they heard me, the DJs put on the Eastern Nuggets, my favourite local band, but people walk off en masse and line the sides of the hall. A long queue winds toward the Kelvinator, and now that it’s less crowded I can make out individuals still on the dance floor, and they include Inaam and Kunle. Are they seriously holding hands? It’s dark, so I’m not sure of what I’m seeing. But they’re not allowed to hold hands, if that’s what they’re doing. No Open Display of Affection, alias ODA. Also, I know Kunle would never be caught dead listening to or dancing to the Eastern Nuggets, so what’s he trying to prove? Sometimes I wish my molecules could just break up and dissipate through the air, that I could teleport. If God were to grant me a super-power, that’s the one I’d ask for. But He never listens to me, and soon I’ll have to stop asking and take matters into my own hands, become a mad scientist or something.

‘I’m out,’ I say to Ngozi and Salif and walk to Mrs. Diouf, who is mid-yawn.

‘Yes, Mr. Avoka.’ Her mouth is wide open. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Can I please go back to my dorm?’

‘Mmmm. How I would like to leave, myself. I haven’t slept well for three days.’

I wonder why she’s telling me this. I don’t care, nor do I want to know what she does when she’s not chaperoning us or teaching math. I look behind me and Inaam is laughing at something Kunle’s said and adjusting her glasses. She hasn’t looked my way once. I leave the dining hall, follow the path to the two-storeyed boys’ dorms.

I stuff clothes into my suitcase, after which I’m overcome with an urge to do something to Kunle—vandalize his things, something, anything to get rid of the chest-constricting jealousy I’m feeling, but he’ll probably come back and catch me mid-act. Instead, I climb into bed and listen to the radio, hoping to add to my hip-hop mix tape. I haven’t done this in months (an incredibly soothing pastime of mine): cue tape, hear the MC announce the song he’s about to play, hover fore- and middle fingers over ‘record and play,’ and, on hearing the song’s opening lines, thump on the buttons because they’re sticky and sometimes pop out in the middle of recording, get the song, press stop. Usually this method is foolproof, but on ‘Award Tour,’ which happens to be my all-time favourite song, Radio Ivory’s jingle cuts right through Q-Tip’s rap. I hope they play it tonight so I can rerecord it.

Imagine I’m on an award tour, away from this messed-up school. I’m on stage with Shaheed and Abstract in Houston, Delaware, DC, Dallas. My name is Kid Kojo; I’m a sick rapper.

Scrubbing the bathroom this morning crucified my appetite. Yes, the tyrants haven’t let up on their punishment. Also, the rice water at breakfast is burned. My tongue feels like a wet wad of smoke was dumped on it. So much for our school boasting the best food in the country. An upper reads the announcements and reminds us to make sure our parents get their school-fee payments in by the second of January. Mummy and Daddy won’t have to worry. My plan is to sweet-talk them over Christmas, when they’re nice and tipsy, and get them to send me to a new school.

Our bedroom is empty. Kunle’s not back from breakfast yet, but he will be. Now is the moment to exact my revenge. Now it feels right—this morning somebody had thrown up in the boys’ bathroom, and as I was holding in my breath and trying not to retch, the plan came to me. Kunle borrowed his father’s Rolex and brought it to school to show off. Before I can stop myself, call off the whole revenge plot, the heavy and exquisite timepiece is between my fingers. Now I’ve popped open its back. Without hesitating I spit on the wheels, springs, the battery, all the internal workings of the watch. Then I snap it shut and return it to the closet. My heart is ready to burst out of my body. Voices outside. I dash to my desk and just before I pick up my Walkman, the door opens.

‘How was the jam yesterday?’ I can’t believe I’ve uttered the words, but it must be guilt speaking.

‘Nice. Inaam is strange. But she let me kiss her a little.’

My heart twitches, tightens, falls. In front of Mrs. Diouf? How can you kiss someone a little?

‘Are you two going out now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kunle says, throwing his clothes all over his bed and the floor. ‘She’s a little weird, but you never know. We’ll see when school starts again.’ A smile lifts the right corner of his mouth, and he looks so infuriating I could slap him, but my revenge calms me. From the mess in his closet he extricates a pair of sneakers I haven’t seen before and slips his feet into them, and just then there are feeble knocks on the door.

‘Please, Kojo’s mother is here,’ the voice says.

‘Kojo, your mother is here,’ Kunle repeats.

‘I heard him.’

I drag my suitcase and leave without saying bye. I walk along the path flanked with flowerpots and get to the car park, to Mummy’s Pajero. I’m glad it’s not Daddy in his tired old Mazda. I will never forget the day he came to visit and smoked up the whole place.

‘Oh, you’ve lost weight!’ Mummy shouts, stepping out of the car. She hugs me, and a red car pulls up next to us as I’m hauling the suitcase into the back. She peers into the newly arrived car and clasps her fingers over her mouth.

‘Obi?!’ she screams. The person is not so sure, but gets out of his car.

‘Zahra? Goodness, Zahra!’ He’s tall and looks familiar, but I’m certain I’ve never met him. There are three scars on both his cheeks. A girl approaches him and asks whom he’s picking up. ‘Inaam Majid,’ he says. The horror.

‘It’s been years,’ Mummy says.

‘You’re looking well!’

‘I can’t believe I haven’t run into you till now. Not even at the kids’ orientation.’

‘I was out of the country for a while. My poor daughter had to figure everything out on her own. But, goodness, you’re looking great.’

I’m about to get into the car when the man’s large hand firmly grabs all of my shoulder and some arm. I’m going to have to bulk up over Christmas.

‘This must be your son?’

‘Yes. Kojo, say hello,’ says Mummy. ‘This is Uncle Obi.’

‘Hello.’ I look off to the side and see Inaam approaching, looking innocent, like yesterday she didn’t stick her tongue into Kunle’s mouth. She runs into her father’s arms and I wonder if he can imagine her kissing a boy.

‘Greet your aunt,’ her father says.

‘Good morning.’ She pushes up her glasses with the back of her hand. Harlot, I think, then take it back. Part of me has always wanted to use that word, but it doesn’t work for Inaam.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Mummy says. ‘Do you two know each other?’

‘Yes,’ Inaam says and beams at me.

Mummy says, ‘You know what?’ She reaches into the car for her purse. ‘I’m throwing a Christmas lunch. Obi, why don’t you two come over? That’s if you don’t already have plans.’ No, no, no! Molecules, disintegrate now! Mummy walks to her door, extracts a pen and card from her purse. ‘It’s nothing fancy. But it’ll be nice to catch up.’

‘Of course,’ Obi Majid says and rubs Inaam’s hair. ‘Thanks. We’ll be there.’

‘Wow, Obi,’ Mummy says as she steers out of the parking lot. ‘I heard his wife died a while ago. Can you imagine? I guess it was presumptuous of me to think it’d be just the two of them. What if he’s remarried? Or seeing someone. But he doesn’t give off that vibe, right?’

I grunt.

‘I haven’t seen him since secondary school. You blink, then suddenly you’ve lost touch with all these people, and they start living their own lives. It always starts when the boys start growing beards …’

She drives out of the school and picks up speed as we wind down the hill. Such a smart idea—building a school on a hill. Nothing makes me brave enough to run away even though I feel like it all the time.

‘So, Kojo!’ Mummy says. ‘Is there a girl? A love interest?’

‘No girl.’

‘Come on. Don’t be like that. Share.’

My silence grows fingers and claws through the air and then solidifies.

We pass by roads filled with girls and boys Atsu’s age, maybe even younger, selling handkerchiefs, wall clocks, rat poison. Most of them laze under neem trees, their wares scattered at their feet, not bothered to chase after customers. A lorry in front of us stops suddenly to offload passengers. Mummy steps on the brakes in time, and we jerk forward.

I can tell she’s dying to shout, ‘Buffoon!’—one of the many insults she employs on crazy drivers, but she’s holding it in. She doesn’t even appear annoyed. Now seems like the time, more than any, to tell her of my plans. If she didn’t scream at the other driver, she’ll probably go easy on me.

‘Mummy? You know how expensive the ISS is?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And I know you and Daddy struggled quite a bit to get me here.’

‘Okay …’

‘I’m thinking of transferring schools.’

‘You can’t possibly be serious, Kojo,’ she says. ‘After all we’ve been through? Don’t be silly.’

I’ll bring up the subject again, with the other parental unit. I’m not going back.